Choose your Poison! Vol 3. [Sovereign Charter Only]

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Mon Jan 17, 2022 5:01 am

Choose Your Poison!

Volume 3

A grim mood has settled over Nova Roma.
Why this is, no one can really say for sure. Some have dismissed it as a post-saturnalia slump, the city’s millions of denizens returning bleary-eyed to their dreary lives after a solid week of debauchery and indulgence. Others blame the weather, the persistent presence of a thick cloud layer that blankets the Eternal City from end to end and does nothing to keep the cold snap out of the air. Which barely allows the weakest glimmer of sunlight to permeate its damp and foggy depths.
Only a few dare whisper other opinions and only ever to their closest confidants or into their deepest cups; that the malaise is an omen, a warning from the gods themselves of the dark times to come. The calm before a terrible storm that comes to hurl the Imperium back into the chaos of ages past…

For reasons known only to yourself you have arrived in the Subura, an ancient district nestled between the Quirnal and Viminal hills that has for centuries housed the very poorest of the city’s poor. A hive of scum and villainy, where neither the investigating eyes of the Vigiles nor even the enforcing arms of the Urban Cohorts traverse lightly.
What little light that can be made out through the cloud is rapidly beginning to fade and you feel a hundred unseen eyes settle on you from the numerous dingy alleyways and gloomy doorways that populate the dilapidated streets. This is not a safe place to be.
One by one the graffitied streetlights begin to blink on, illuminating your surroundings with a sickly artificial light which begins to gently flicker. Out of the corner of your eye you can see, quite out of place, a single pub. Its design looks completely different to every other building you have seen here so far, with a hand painted- albeit chipped- sign hanging crookedly above the door. The Sovereign Bar.

Bereft of a better option, you hurry as quickly as you dare inside, where you are instantly met by an overpowering smell of stale beer and, what you hope to be, cigarette smoke. The decor is old, very old. Painted portraits and photographs alike decorate the stained walls, all covered in identical layers of dust. The table and chairs look solid enough, made from various mismatched woods though what little upholstery they may have had has been worn away with age.
Finally, you come to the bar itself, which dominates the far section of the room, you cannot help but be blown away at the sheer selection of bottles that litter its overloaded shelves. Many of the labels are too dust-coated to read properly but you feel like you recognise at least one or two by shape alone.
The sound of distant arguing brings you back to the moment as a rotund fellow with an immense beard squeezes his way through a hitherto unnoticed passageway behind the bar. The man shouts something unintelligible over his shoulder then, noticing you, rests his bare elbows on the bar and sniffs loudly.
“Name’s Tim.” He says, in a strong Asgarthian accent. “What can I get you, we’ve got a list but if you’ve got any special requests, I can probably get it.” He flashes you a grin. “Might cost you, though.”
Looking to his right you can see a chalkboard, remarkable for the sheer fact that it appears to be the only clean surface in the entire room, with a messy but legible drinks list scrawled on it:

Sovereign Bar Menu

Beers

Asgarthian Ale:
The finest ale from Asgareth. Saved from the Chaos by the brave heroes who legged it out. Available on draught and bottles. Best served at room temperature, but no one usually minds after 5 or 6. 3.8% ABV

Belgican Stella:
Affectionately known as ‘wife-beater’ in the western provinces due to its high alcoholic content, most often enjoyed when your football team is losing. 5% ABV

Gaspian Lager:
A sweet tasting beer, the Gaspian lager is light and frizzy. Enjoy while Gaspe lasts! 4% ABV

Brain’s Smooth:
A disgusting beer from Cambrius. Best enjoyed when under duress, 3.5% ABV

Zhigulevskoye Beer:
Quite possibly the cheapest beer in existance, served in a 5 litre (8.7 pint) plastic bottle and costed at a single pint. With prices like this no one has dared complain about the taste. 2.8% ABV

Wines

Rhaeticum:
From Verona in the Northeast of Italia, this wine is aged for 12 years or more. A favourite of the god Augustus, it is to be drank with pork and never beef (though we serve neither). 11.5% ABV

Formianum:
A lovely white from the Gulf of Caieta, it is aged for 7 years. Best served with white fish (Prawn and cocktail crisps work just as well) 11% ABV

Falernian:
A strong white wine produced on the verdant slopes of Mount Falernus. Widely held to be one of the finest wines in existence and, thus, one of the most expensive. Served Dry, Sweet or Light. 15.5% ABV

Skjoldurian Mead:
Well, they seem to like it. 18% ABV

Sovetskoye Shampanskoye:
A synthetic sparkling wine that tastes surprisingly good considering the cost. List of allergens available on request. 12.5% ABV

Spirits

Dragnian Vodka:
A sharp vodka, originating from Northern Asgareth. Available either straight or mixed. 38% ABV

Stolichnaya Elit Vodka:
A well-regarded staple of the Slavacian diet. Highly illegal in the Imperium, a friendly reminder to all patrons: Snitches get Stitches. 40% ABV

Penderyn Whiskey:
A very passable whisky from Cambrius. 37% ABV

Mezcal:
Made from Natufian agave plants, found in the north of The Natufian Nation. Highly recommended by patrons. 49% ABV

Etanoli:
A truly vile spirit from southern Skjoldur. Many have commented that it’s best used as drain cleaner. 70% ABV

'Ol Imperial Rum:
Pure Ethanol, Sugar and spice this product of the plantations of Alexandrovsk was served on Slavic Ships of the Line for over 100 years, where it occasionally was used as a gunpowder substitute. Served with a slice of dried pineapple. 85% ABV (Pineapple is now out of stock until further notice)

World Traditions

Natufian Arkhi:
Fermented Auroch milk, called Tarag, acrid, earthy taste to it. An interesting drink from The Natufian Nation. 10% ABV

Barrels of Asgarthian Ale may be purchased directly. Ask your friendly server for more details.

From time-to-time patrons recommend new alcoholic substances. These are trialled for 3 months and may become a permanent fixture on the menu.

Barkeep can and will provide alibis for a discretionary fee

Crisps: Salt & Vinegar, Vorka Cheese & Onion, Ready Salted & Prawn Cocktail Available

Peanuts & Pork Scratchings Available Upon Request

A range of non-alcoholic drinks, including tea, coffee and fizzy drinks are also available. Ask the barkeep for further details.

Spices available for Roman wines, upon request (charge payable)

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Mon Jan 17, 2022 6:00 am

Quintus Valerius Marcellus: The Terrible Tourist

“I heard you the first time, you miserable old goat.” A clipped voice shouted from the depths of the passageway. A few moments passed, occasionally punctuated with clattering and foul language, before a slight figure emerged into the bar struggling with a large crate filled with bottles. As he reached the threshold the man’s dark eyes widened in shock and for a split second it seemed as though he was about to lose control of his burden.
Thankfully, the man was able to stabilise himself at the last moment breathing an audible sigh of relief. He was a tall man, looking just shy of 6 feet. His clothes were well cut and expensive looking but were beginning to show signs of disrepair and displayed a few prominent stains down the front.
“What are you doing!” Tim snapped. “Does this look like breaktime! Quit lounging.”
The man stared at the bearded barkeep incredulously. “I keep telling you, I don’t work here!”
“Then why are you brining up stock?” Tim snapped back.
He opened his mouth to respond but closed it just as quickly and he gave the impression that he was genuinely considering the barkeep’s logic. “Fair point.” Keeping eye contact throughout, he dropped the crate behind the bar which landed with an eye-watering crash.

“That’s coming out of your pay.” Tim barked, stepping away from the mess with a deftness that betrayed his size.
Sauntering around the bar, the quasi-employee blew a raspberry to the older man and rested his head in his hands, leaning on the bar for support.
“Jupiter above, we went too far last night. I don’t know where that stuff came from, but the skull and crossbones should’ve been a warning.”
“You threw up in the ladies’ bog.”
“Only because you were busy wrecking the gents, it could’ve been worse.”
“Tell that to the poor bird who was in there.”
The man groaned and sank deeper into his hands, fingers running through his overlong hair.
“Do I have to?”

by **Skjoldur** » Sat Feb 12, 2022 9:54 am

The man trudged through the streets of Subra. As he walked through the broken-down soulless streets that surrounded him, he founded himself thinking back to his last assignment. It had been a cushy job, a simple assassination in Cambrius, but he had posed as a waiter for three months and aside from the guests yelling at him, he had quite enjoyed his time there. He sighed, part of him wished he could go back to waitering tables staying in that small yet charming apartment, going bowling with the guys from work every Saturday night. It would have been easy, but that’s not what a Lejemorders did, they kill and as much as he hated to admit it, the man loved his job. He liked killing, it had been bred into him from the age of 5 ever since his parents sold him to the army to get out of paying some debts, it’s all he had ever known. He smiled at the thought of his parents, those bastards had forgotten all about him, started a new family with new children who they loved much more then him. His smile broadened as he remembered those same children’s tears when they saw their parents’ mutilated corpse hanging from the ceiling when they came back from school. He had saved it into his memory and whenever he was feeling down or questioning what he was doing with his life he brought that memory back up to remind him that there was no home for him, no life he could lead outside of this one, society would never accept a man like him back. He sighed no he was stuck in this life until he was killed, by one of his targets or the Skjoldurian government itself, either way his life would not end well.

The icy wind pummeled his body, chilling him down to the bones. Dam this cloak he thought to himself. The cloak itself right call, it was very common around these parts which let him blend it, it also helped conceal his weapons and his face without it looking to suspicious, all in all he was happy with it but my god it was terrible in sheltering him from the wind. He ducked behind an ally way had a quick look around, after been satisfied no one was looking he pulled out a scrap of paper with an address on it The Sovereign Bar below was another piece of writing Marcus Similus. He sighed; this was not going to be a fun mission. Preparing himself he walked back onto the street a cold blast of icy wind hitting him as he did. After another ten minutes he arrived at the bar, pushing open the door he was happy to see the bar was almost completely deserted just a drunk tourist in the corner yelling loudly. He looked over the barman who hadn’t even acknowledged the lejemorder’s presence, instead he was staring intently at his phone. The lejemorder cracked his neck he eyed the barman up and making sure he wasn’t armed and trying to work out exactly how to play this, weary traveler, drunken ingrate or perhaps a polite young student looking for a place to wait. Eventually he decided to match the barman’s energy, gruff no-nonsense looking for a place to be alone it would probably play best with what he was about to do.

The man sighed, taking of his cloak the deliberately walked to the table in the corner first, scoping out the place and letting everyone know he had arrived. He wanted the people in the bar to see him and dismiss him as quickly as possible. After depositing his cloak and his bag he returned to the bar making great pains to show he wasn’t a threat he went up to the bartender and nodded to him as a way of greeting. The bartender nodded back and then asked “what you having” the lejemorder glanced at the bored. “I’ll have a asgharthian ale” he said in a thick Roman accent. The bartender nodded and turned around, the Lejemorder contained a smile, he’d been practicing that accent all week and was proud on how it had turned out. As the bartender passed him his drink the Lejemorder shot a quick glance at the two roman tourists who were talking about something that happened to them three months ago between them two girls and a herd of sheep, the lejemorder turned to the bartender and raised his eyes, the bartender returned that with a slight eye roll, not a word had been spoken but and entire conversation had been had. The lejemorder picked up his glass and went back to his table. Now we wait he thought.
Character sheet: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pVV ... HJaOQ/edit

by **Greater Slavacia** » Sun Feb 13, 2022 5:22 am

The floor boards behind the bar crack and twist, as a rotten wooden hatch opens. From beneath, emerges a graying brown haired man wearing a pristine suit and on top of it, a heavily bloodied butcher robe. Slipping off his gloves, he motions to the bartender:

"Looks like I've done ze quota vor ze kidneys vor a month. Danke for assisting me in my research Tim. Zeez studies on surgery wizout anesthetics are quite hard to obtain volounteers vor. I vonder vai? Pour me a Ol' Imperial while you're at it."

Tim nods, his eyes not displaying the slight concern over the mental state of his premier medical professional. Or the fact that the good doctor seems to drink alcohol like a Slavic tractor drinks petrol. Silently, he slides over a steaming tin mug of a dark and extremely sweet smelling goop.

Without looking at his cup, Richard takes the mug and pours the contents into his mouth, not forgetting to hold the mug like a true aristocrat, with his fifth finger extended outwards. Just then, Richard notices the rather hungover Roman at the bar. Appraising him, Richards mouth curls in a pleasant smile, and he extends his hand towards the man: "Very good day kamaraden, Richard Weber, or Dr. Weber vor vriends, now zat my medical license is suspended. How do you do?"

EDIT: Sniped by Skj, will add to this post

EDIT 2: No I won't because Im a lie and a cheat.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Feb 19, 2022 6:06 pm

On a dirty street in the Subura, unusually icy winds made their way from the north and cut through the gap between the Quirnal and Viminal hills of Nova Roma, keeping the dinizens of the poor, bleak neighborhood indoors. Yet, a young girl, inadequately covered against the wind, was selling half-wilted flowers from a weather-beaten box near the bar district of the slum. She spied a youngish looking couple appraoching arm in arm and held out a flower, asking, "Flos emere amicam tuam?".

The man stopped, gave the girl a sincere and compassionate smile and handed her a ten dinarii note, far more than what the flower was worth. He then presented it to the woman accompanying him who looked at the dying flower with distaste. It was bad enough her date was taking her to this hellhole of a place, did he really think a piece of garbage would endear him to her?

But unknown to the young woman, she was but a cover in a much larger game. The man with her, Titus Ardavanius Marduk, was not interested in amare, he was on a mission. A most deadly mission. For Titus, a Natufian of earned Roman citizenship, was in fact a Paladin of Themis, a quasi-religious order of gunmen and trackers dedicated to preserving Law and Order in the Imperium. The founder and head of the Paladins, Faustus Treblanus Sylvius, had sent Titus to protect one Marcus Similus, a scientist of some kind whom their client wanted to keep alive, without him knowing it if possible. Apparently the assignment didn't know he was being watched and protected and might panic if he did. Titus was to track and observe his mark but not approach unless he was in immediate danger. And danger seemed to be following the rogue scientist. For Titus was also warned that the client believed Marcus was being targeted by a Lejemorder, a Skjordurian assassin of the most ruthless sort. Titus was also to identify, and if necessary, neutralize, the Lejemorder.

As a secondary objective, he was also told to keep an ear out for information about an illegal organ harvesting ring that the Urban Cohorts believed may be operating in the area.

The couple stopped in front of a dingy tavern, the name "Sovereign Bar" carved into the cracked wood shingle above the door. So this is where downtrodden, alcoholic scientists go to die, eh? Titus thought to himself. His sence of decency revolted against everything the Subura represented. Well, my mad scientist friend, let us see if Themis judges you worthy of a second life.

Titus opened the door and ushered his fake date inside. He did not want to bring her, considering the innocent girl too much of a liability, but Faustus convinced him it would make him less conspicous and unnoticed. Just get her safely out before things go to pot, Fasutus said. Titus hoped it wouldn't come to that, conscious of the two weapons hidden on his body, a combat knife in his boot, and Vesper model .45 caliber pistol carefully hidden under his leather vest.

Titus led the girl to the bar and observed the menu board, pleased to see a couple of drinks from his homeland on offer. When the bartender approached, dirtying a cloth with the inside of a glass, Titus said, "A glass of Formianum for the lady, and a Natufian akhri for myself, if you please. Any specials on the dinner menu?"

Tim gave the Natufian an awkward look and replied, "Well, I do have a fresh kidney pie going in the kitchen."

There was something offputting about the look and tone of the barman that Titus didn't trust. "Just the drinks for now, thank you".

Tim grunted, shot a quick, worried look to Dr. Weber, who was struggling to make himself coherrent enough for Marcellus to understand, and commenced to pouring the drinks.

While they waited, Titus took the opportunity to appraise the room. He didn't see Marcus Similus in the room but he had arrived well before the drunk's ususal time of arrival, so that cheked out. What about the Lejemorder? If he was here, he could be anywhere or anyone. He could be in plain sight, one of the patrons of the bar, or hiding in some dark corner of the backrooms or privy. But more likely than not, he was alone; Lejemorders had notoroiusly poor social skills. He quickly sized up the current occupants, dismissing the arguing couple at the table near them, and the musicians setting up on the elevated platform in the corner, and the two men whom for some reason where making sheep noises at each other, laughing in drunkeness.

Still, that left at least half a dozen shifty looking characters, and another half dozen less-shifty looking figures, from the middle aged woman obviously concealing a stilleto in her bosom, to the pale figure happily nursing an Asgarthian ale in a far corner, cloak draped over a chair in arm's length. The Subura was a perfect place for the Lejemorder to blend in.

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Mon Feb 21, 2022 9:56 am

Quintus Valerius Marcellus: The Terrible Tourist

Marcellus, head still in his hands, sighed loudly.
“I just want to know where you got them from.” He said to his valet, a short but stocky man by the name of Veneris. “A whole herd?”
“In Cambrius weren’t we.” Veneris grunted, tucking in greedily to a pilfered packet of ‘Farmer Lucius’s Own’ pork scratchings.
“In a nightclub! In the capital! At three in the morning! There couldn’t have been a field for miles.”
The freedman shrugged.
“You’re the one who wanted a sheepskin, boss.”
“Yes!” Marcellus all but yelled, fists clenched. “A sheepskin, a johnny, a rubber! Those girls were so up for it I could’ve cried!”
“Never asked for one before, ‘ave you.”
“Well no.” Marcellus deflated a little, eye twinging as a fresh wave of pain surged though his beleaguered head. “But everyone knows you don’t have a Cambrian bareback, absolute filth.”
Veneris nodded sagely, picking a bit of food out of his teeth with a fingernail.
“Their sheep are worse, none of ‘em called me back.”
Marcellus looked at his valet incredulously, at a rare loss for words.
“So that’s where…No. I’m not doing this today.” He vaguely gestured away with one hand, his other occupied with gently massaging his temple. “Shoo, go get me breakfast… or dinner, delete as appropriate.

Grumbling, the shorter man shuffled off his stool and slowly sauntered round the back, helping himself to an unattended pint as he did.
“Unbelievable.” Marcellus muttered under his breath, turning round to call for his usual hangover cure- two shots of vodka and a bump of coke- but saw Tim engaged with a hooded figure asking for an Asgarthian Ale. Hideous stuff, the thought of it alone was enough to make Marcellus grimace but it quickly turned into a frown as he paid more attention to the fellow’s voice.
It was clearly an attempt at a Roman accent, all be it from someone who had never spoke to, met or possibly never even seen from a distance, an actual native of the Imperium. He’d heard better on Noctish soap operas for Jove’s sake. Tuning his ear in a little closer, Marcellus thought he could almost recognise it…something in the diphthongs, much harsher than one would normally hear around these parts.
Suddenly it came to him, Skjdolurian, had to be! Considering the man’s height, it was almost insultingly obvious. People in the Subura pretending to be someone they weren’t was unremarkable enough in itself, but they usually had the good graces to be better at It. What was notable, though, was the fact Marcellus couldn’t quite place it within the kingdom.
He’d travelled around Skjoldur a fair amount in his time and seen most of the major Jarldoms, though this fellow didn’t sound to be from any of them. Curious.

He didn’t have much more time to dedicate to the thought, however, disrupted as he was by the unexpected emergence of a besuited individual, wearing an apron stained with…what Marcellus deeply hoped what red paint, from a shockingly well disguised trapdoor. As Weber introduced himself, Marcellus found himself unable to do anything but stare, mouth agape.
Ignoring the doctor’s outstretched hand, the young Roman looked to Tim, who was busy cleaning his ears with the bar-rag.
“Want to explain this?”
“Explain what?” Tim said tersely.
“This” Marcellus pointed directly at Weber, who was still waiting patiently with his hand out. “This whole…thing here.”
“What’s to explain.”
“Well, there’s that trapdoor for one.”
“No idea what you’re on about.”
“The man is covered in blood, for Pluto’s sake!”
Tim’s eyes flickered over to Weber.
“No he isn’t.”
He then proceeded to blatantly mine taking off an apron to the doctor, using his own grime-stained smock as an example.
“I…er…I…Fuck it.” Disregarding the barman entirely Marcellus took Weber’s hand and shook it as calmly as he could manage. “Quintus Valerius Marcellus.” He announced somehow summoning a smile. “And I…need a drink. Tim, give me two of those.”

As Helios descends and dusk begins to encroach, the Sovereign Bar slowly creaks to life. It’s dingy lights a beacon to all those who want to while the evening away, promising good company and strong booze. Both these promises are, of course, lies but you’re here now, so you might as well stay.
More and more patrons pass through the sunken doorway and a bit of an atmosphere starts to develop, aided greatly by the Hibernian band who strike up some jolly drinking ballads, far too rude to describe in polite company and the liberal amount of alcohol flowing like a bibulous river.
Old enemies suddenly find themselves friends and old friends rediscover long buried grudges as at least one fist fight breaks out, the combatants locked in a deadly duel of the pugilistic arts for a grand total of two minutes before one goes down like a sack of bricks, having slipped on some spillage. There are cheers all around as Tim distributes the winnings- minus his commission of course.
All in all, it appears to be a regular night in the Sovereign Bar, where nothing could possibly go wrong, and everyone will stay alive. Maybe.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Thu May 12, 2022 8:41 am

As the evening dragged on into the night, the Sovereign Bar came to life. Patrons from all walks of life and from all corners of the world ambled in and found their spot amongst the tables and bar stools waiting to accommodate them. Tim the barman seemed somehow able to keep them all happily served while showing no real sense of haste.

Titus, the Natufian-Roman war veteran and Paladin of Themis, felt a heighted sense of concern as the bar filled, making it harder to track the movements of the individuals he was eyeing. At the same time he was trying to feign interest in his date’s inane and delusional plans to break into a modeling career. At least with the bar band playing a rather loud set, it was, mercifully, getting harder to hear her drone on about how she only eats organic feta and how her Pilates instructor is ‘just so amazing’. Titus, half-listening to the band’s rendition of the popular song “Enormous penis”, recalled someone once mentioning it was their personal theme song. He idly wondered if that was because the person had an enormous penis or because he was an enormous penis. The thought briefly amused him.

Thus, Titus continued to play his role as a regular Joe out on a date, nursing his akhri but careful not to over-imbibe. Many of the bar patrons were drinking and chatting in groups, but almost as many were suspiciously alone. Then there was the man in a very bloody apron trying to make conversation with a young Roman. Titus took note to keep an eye on the blood-adorned man but figured that it was unlikely the assassin in his midst would be that conspicuous. He was probably from the kitchen, reinforcing Titus’ aversion to ordering dinner here. There was also something about the young man that Titus couldn’t quite put his finger on. The man had a certain air about him, an almost regal regard characteristic of Roman nobility. Probably another senator’s son slumming it for his own amusement, Titus thought. He completely missed the Skjoldurian man in the corner, leisurely taking sips of his Asgarthian ale, eyeing the door.

Titus kept a casual eye on the crowd, occasionally nodded to his date making noncommittal comments to whatever she was saying and frequently turned his glance to the door. Where was this scientist he was supposed to protect!?

Choose your Poison! Vol 3. [Sovereign Charter Only]

Choose your Poison! Vol 3. [Sovereign Charter Only]

Richard Weber: The Good Doctor

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